Act Cool

by Tobly McSmith

  “August, has anyone shown you Theater One?” Juliet asks as I take the final bite of my almond butter and grape jelly sandwich.

  “I don’t think so,” I say, covering my mouth as I chew.

  “It’s incredible,” Meena says. “But the real view is from the sound box.”

  “Can I give you the tour?” Juliet asks, smiling.

  I look at Anna, unsure if I should take the invitation. “Go—I need to go change anyways. This dress doesn’t allow for movement.”

  I smile at Juliet. “I’d like that,” I say, feeling a little panicked. This sounds silly, but I’m nervous to be around another trans person. I’m too new. Too inexperienced. I don’t know the script between two trans people. I don’t know the language. What if there’s a secret handshake?

  We say goodbyes and exit the lunchroom into a quieter hallway. Juliet walks slowly, with purpose, and pulls her roller backpack behind her. I haven’t seen her standing—she’s taller than I am, with her rose-gold hair in a half bun. “What do you think of SPA so far?”

  “It’s a lot,” I admit. This school makes me feel behind. Behind on academics—classes move faster here. Behind on acting—everyone already has an IMDb page. And behind on being transgender—new to my new identity and new to even being around other trans people. I don’t know how obvious it is, but to me it’s so clear.

  Trying to be a gentleman, I carry Juliet’s oversized backpack down the stairs.

  “Anna seems to really like you.”

  My cheeks get hot. I can feel her looking at me for a reaction—wanting to know if I feel the same. Instead of responding, I ask, “How does Anna know everyone? Is she the theater mob boss of this school?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “I think you should ask her.”

  We make it to the ground floor. I set down her backpack and wipe the sweat off my forehead. “What’s in here? Every single book you own? A dead body?”

  “Some art supplies, and maybe body parts,” she kids.

  We pass my new favorite place—the gender-neutral bathrooms. I nod toward them. “They didn’t have those at my old school.”

  “So progressive, right? I don’t get the big deal with bathroom politics. All the fear and the laws. It’s just a place to do your business and makeup.”

  “And vape and text,” I add.

  “Exactly.”

  As we walk down the hallway, I ask, “How many trans people go here?”

  “It’s a big school, hard to know. At least two,” she says, then nudges me. “I think maybe ten? There’s a good number of nonbinary people.”

  “Like Jack?”

  “Like Jack,” she confirms. “I do love the singular they—not just a rebellion against gender, but also language.”

  Juliet stops in front of blue double doors. “Here we are,” she says, “Theater One.” I push the doors open and audibly gasp.

  “Holy shit,” I say, making Juliet laugh. I was expecting big, but not Broadway big. There must be a thousand seats. This place is the opposite of that old Broadway theater I was in last weekend—the seats are new, the carpet is fresh, and the stage is the size of a football field. To think that I might be on that stage someday with an audience full of people.

  “This is incredible,” I say, my voice echoing.

  Juliet leans against a guardrail and watches me. “I was on that stage once.”

  “You did art on that stage?” I ask, confused.

  “No,” she says with a laugh. “I started in drama but changed to art at the end of my freshman year.”

  “Why?” I ask, hoping it’s not too personal.

  Juliet sighs. “I got shy. After my transition, I didn’t want people staring at me, and that’s kind of the whole point of standing onstage. So, I transferred to painting and sculpture. I like making art, not being the art. And the odds depressed me. How many transgender actors have been on Broadway?”

  “Only a handful,” I say.

  “Only a handful,” she repeats. “In the history of Broadway.”

  “But things are getting better,” I say—to convince her, and also myself.

  “Sorry, August, I imagine you have big dreams, and I don’t want to rain on them, but I couldn’t compete with those odds. I wasn’t that good at acting.”

  “I get it,” I say, looking at the empty stage. “I’m going to be up there. And on bigger stages. In front of sold-out audiences. I know it.”

  “I believe it,” Juliet says.

  “You’re the first trans person I’ve met,” I blurt out.

  Juliet puts her hands on her mouth. Her eyes soften. “Oh, August, that’s adorable.”

  “I feel so behind. I’m new to everything,” I admit.

  She puts her hands on my shoulders. “You’ve been transgender all your life. Just like me. Transition is a transformation, and those take patience and time. And every gender journey is different. Don’t measure your transition against anyone else’s.”

  There’s something I want to ask but don’t know how to. “I have this friend with a problem,” I start.

  Juliet crosses her arms, amused. “Ah yes, a friend.”

  I continue my obvious ruse. “My friend thinks that everyone knows he’s trans when he walks into a room. It makes him self-conscious. He doesn’t know what people think about it.”

  Juliet contemplates what to tell me. I’m sure she doesn’t want to give “my friend” the wrong advice. “Well, August, tell your friend that they can’t control what’s happening in other people’s heads. They don’t have access to other people’s thoughts, and so they will never know for sure. Unless your friend has magical powers?”

  “They don’t.”

  “Too bad,” she says. “But you can tell your friend that I’m here for them.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “You ready?” she asks, just as the bell rings. I could stay here all day, but I don’t want the wrath of Mr. Daniels if I’m late to class.

  Before we get to the main corridor, Juliet points at a display box full of clay faces. “Check those out,” she says proudly. “Every sophomore sculpture class does a self-portrait. The best ones live forever in this box.”

  “I’ll guess which one’s yours,” I say, then study the faces, eventually pointing to the one with happy eyes and a smile. “There you are,” I say confidently.

  “August, no,” she says, almost offended. “It’s that one.” She points to the face that’s screaming, with eyes filled with terror. “That’s me.”

  I look at Juliet. “That’s how you feel, really?”

  She shrugs. “Sometimes.”

  Maybe Juliet isn’t as comfortable as I thought. I take a closer look at the sculpture. “It’s dark and sad, but beautiful.”

  “Like me,” she says.

  I make it to class right at the bell. The only empty desks are in the back row. I’ll take it—as far away as possible from the eyeline of Mr. Daniels, who is at his desk flipping through a notebook. The room gets quiet, waiting for him to begin. He stands up, his white button-up shirt puffy under his scholarly vest. “Everyone up. Let’s get warmed up. Up, up, up you go.”

  We stand by our desks and do stretches, movement exercises, humming, lip bubbles, and tongue twisters. It’s nice to get the body moving, but this means we will be performing for the class. “Now sit,” he directs. “Let’s continue discussing the Stanislavski method. Today we will focus on identifying your character’s objective in scenes. Don’t get too comfortable in that chair—we will be working on a scene in a few.”

  My heart jumps into my throat. This will be my first time acting in front of the class. I’m equally nervous and excited. First impressions are important. Everyone will remember this performance. I need to prove myself to this school, and to Mr. Daniels.

  He continues, “The objective is your character’s motive in the scene. What they want, what they need. Your actions all work toward that ob
jective. Make sense?”

  A couple of hands go up, but Mr. Daniels ignores them. “Now, let’s get some stage time in, shall we? You and your partner will perform a scene. As you prepare, identify your character’s objective. I want to see that in your performance. You’ll have ten minutes before we begin. Your scene partner’s name is at the top of the script,” he says, then hands the stack of papers to Anna. She hops up and walks the aisles, passing out papers and saying hellos.

  When Anna gets to me, she drops my script down. “Sorry about your scene partner,” she whispers.

  “What?” I ask, scanning the top of my page for a name. TESS MONTAGUE. “Who is this?”

  Anna smiles and points to the girl a few rows over. She would make a great Regina George. “Is she a mean girl?” I ask.

  “The meanest,” Anna confirms, then continues handing out scripts. Everyone pairs off and spreads out around the room. Tess remains at her desk, reading her script. I walk over and say, “Hi, I’m August Greene.”

  “I know who you are,” she says, not even looking up.

  “We are scene partners,” I offer.

  “I’m aware.” She puts her highlighter down and fake smiles.

  She knows so much about me. “So, want to run the scene?” I ask.

  “I’d rather work with my script. It’s best for me.”

  “Okay,” I say, frustrated. We should be figuring out blocking and running lines, but instead we work separately as the room explodes around us with laughter, talking, and overly dramatic readings. This is not going well. I skim the scene, but I’m too annoyed to concentrate. It’s a two-page fight between a husband and wife. Full of clichés. Boring.

  “Hey,” I say, earning me an eye roll from Tess. “How about we switch parts? I play the wife and you play the husband. That would be memorable.”

  She looks disgusted. “Why would we do that? Why would I play the husband?”

  “It’s just an idea.” I get bold and say, “I can play both genders.”

  Another scoff. “You can? Who says you can?”

  I feel the need to defend myself. “I’m transgender,” I say, hoping that explains it.

  “So you can play both roles?”

  “And how are we doing?” Mr. Daniels asks, standing over me and Tess.

  “Hello, Mr. Daniels,” Tess practically chirps. “We’re doing great.”

  “Good, good,” Mr. Daniels says. “Maybe it would help to run the actual lines from the scene, too? You have about four minutes left.” He walks on to the next group.

  Tess looks at me. “Why can’t I find anything about you online?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Who are your parents?” she asks.

  “Why does it matter?”

  Tess tilts her head. “Someone in your family has to be famous. Or rich. Last I checked, they don’t let some nobody from Pennsylvania show up at the last second and attend the most prestigious arts high school in the country.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. I don’t even know what to say. I look down at my script. I need to concentrate. I’m playing Donnie. The whole scene is Donnie begging his wife to stay. She doesn’t love him. My mind is racing.

  “All right, thespians, time to show us what you got,” Mr. Daniels yells. I’m screwed. So much for first impressions. At least I’ll have time to prepare during other people’s performances. “Tess and August. How about you get us started?”

  Craaaaaap.

  It’s official—I’m finished. Tess nearly skips to the stage, her blonde ponytail almost taunting me as I follow behind. We take the stage and I’m gripping my script tight to not reveal that my hands are shaking. This isn’t going to go well. Will they laugh at me? Anna will tell my new lunch friends that I bombed. And that cute girl named Yazmin is in the front row.

  “Ready when you are,” Mr. Daniels sings from behind his desk.

  Tess and I turn toward each other. I take one last deep breath and get into the scene. I am Donnie and I love my wife (ugh, Tess), who is leaving me for a rich man (great, bye!), but I am desperate for her to stay. I start the scene, but we don’t connect. Our energies don’t match. Tess is too standoffish, and I’m too desperate. It’s like she’s not in the same scene as me. She’s giving me nothing. And when we get to the end, a moment between Donnie and Jackie that’s supposed to be sweet and hopeful, it comes off like we hate each other, because maybe we do?

  After we finish, there’s a small round of applause—more polite than real. I look at the class, who are visibly unmoved by our performance. I kind of want to throw up. Mr. Daniels removes his glasses. “Tess, what was your objective?”

  “Passiveness,” she says passively.

  “That’s an emotion. What was your goal?”

  “Oh, to be passive. I hate him and I wanted it to be over.”

  I can’t tell if she’s talking about Donnie and the marriage, or me and the scene.

  “And August?”

  “My character’s objective was to stay with my wife.” I turn on the Funny Guy and give Tess a look. “I’m not sure why.”

  The class laughs, and that feels like fuel. Mr. Daniels shakes his head. “You can take your seats. William and Kerry, won’t you be next?”

  I return to the back row, defeated. I’m embarrassed and avoid making eye contact with anyone. The next scenes are great—some funny, some serious. I’m drowning in other people’s talents. I spend the rest of class seething about Tess. This is all her fault. She really messed it up for me. That was my chance to show everyone why I’m here, and Tess Montague ruined that.

  After the last scene, Mr. Daniels takes center stage. “Great work today, gang. Don’t forget your super-objective paper on Monday. I would also like you to prepare a monologue for the end of next week. Anything you want,” he says; then, like a cue from the sound board, the bell rings.

  I wait until Tess walks by and follow her out. Once we’re in the hallway, I tap on her shoulder and say, “Good job ruining that for me.”

  “You did that yourself,” she says.

  I puff up my chest. For Tess, I’m the Tough Guy. “What’s your deal?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I started acting classes when I was five. Dance, ballet, and singing classes in middle school. I had a tutor just for the audition to SPA. Just for the audition. We prepared, we stressed, and we even prayed for a spot at this school. I waited outside for five hours, and earned my spot here. And some of my best friends, they didn’t get in. So, you walking into SPA like nothing really annoys me.”

  “Sorry to annoy you,” I say, not backing down. “But I auditioned for my spot.”

  “With Mr. Daniels? I’m sure your girlfriend helped sweet-talk her dad.”

  “Girlfriend?” I ask.

  “Anna.”

  “Dad?”

  “Mr. Daniels,” Tess says, watching my reaction. “Oh, you didn’t know that?”

  “Sure I did,” I say, lying.

  “Look, no offense, but I don’t think you deserve to be here.”

  Before I can continue my Tough Guy act, Anna appears by my side.

  Tess smiles big and fake. “You’re such a cute couple,” she says, then walks off.

  “What was that?” Anna asks.

  “Nothing,” I lie. I can’t even look at Anna right now. Her dad is Mr. Daniels? Why wouldn’t she tell me? Did she influence Mr. Daniels’s decision on letting me into the school? And worse, does everyone at SPA think that?

  Anna smiles. “Want to walk to the subway after school?”

  I need some time to think. “I’m good today.”

  “Fine,” she says. “Talk later?”

  “Sure,” I say, actually not sure at all.

  Four

  Sunday, September 15

  12:47 P.M.

  “Rise and shine! This is a homework intervention,” Aunt Lil sings while opening the shades to let in the sun. I spent Saturday doing homework. And Friday night. I was planning on doing the same today, but I guess Aun
t Lil has different ideas. “You do know you live in the coolest city in the world, right?”

  “I can see it from my window,” I say, stretching my arms. I’ve been enjoying a lazy morning looking at my phone before getting back to my desk. I’ve never had homework to do on the weekends. Also, I’ve never had this much. I’m getting concerned about the next two years.

  “It’s the weekend; you should be out vaping or eating Tide Pods,” she jokes.

  “I don’t want to get behind.”

  “Maybe this will get you out?” She hands me a printout of a ticket to an Off-Broadway show. “I became a member of the Atlantic Theater Company years ago to impress a girl. The things we do for love, August, I swear.”

  “Was she impressed?” I ask.

  “Yes. For about a year, then she got impressed by someone else. I never went to a show, but I kept paying the dues. You should go forth, young man, and get my money’s worth.”

  The ticket is for an up-and-coming play called Happiness Is for Other People. I’ve read reviews online, mostly positive, and it’s a Critic’s Pick by the New York Times. Maybe it will inspire me to write my super-objective paper for Mr. Daniels. The play starts at three—I need to get moving. “Thank you, Auntie,” I say, excited.

  “Don’t come home until you have something pierced,” Aunt Lil demands with a wink.

  After one subway transfer, one delay due to a sick passenger, and a ten-minute walk, I’m standing in front of a church. I’m usually at a church on Sunday (not by choice), but this church is a theater (more holy, in my opinion), and I’m not sitting through a sermon, I’m attending a matinee (hallelujah!).

  The place is packed, with people standing outside the theater, crowding the lobby, and waiting for the bathroom. It’s unsettling to see people standing in a church holding sippy cups of wine. But I can adjust quick. I walk with confidence, pretending to be an important person. People must think I’m a celebrity, or the son of a celebrity. Or maybe they will think I’ve lost my mom.

  I hit the concession stand. It’s thrilling to be here alone. I’m good on my own. In West Grove, I’d go for bike rides by myself and go to see movies alone. I can get lost in my thoughts and not have to put on a show for somebody else.